


ideally you'd just go to nino's

by kiiouex



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: All Three of them Wearing Suits, Gentle Stress Relief, M/M, POV Second Person, Uncomfortable Formal Events, established poly relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 17:12:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6123796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiiouex/pseuds/kiiouex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You tuck the letter back into its envelope, feeling vaguely nauseous. The date isn’t far off. “Did they not send me one?” </p>
<p>“Your attendance must be a given,” Ronan replies. He stretches in his doorframe, eyeing you with wary suspicion. “Does that mean I’m the boyfriend they’ve chosen to acknowledge?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	ideally you'd just go to nino's

**Author's Note:**

> To everyone who's sick of seeing my name: I know. I'm sorry. 
> 
> This was going to be PG and then tk pointed out how porno-y some of the dialogue was… sooooo……… thanks to [telekinesiskid](http://archiveofourown.org/users/telekinesiskid) for beta'ing and suggesting hey, what if they touched?

The invitation comes on expensive card stock, off-white and watermarked with tasteful gold embossing. You have it half-open on the assumption it’s for you before you finally glance at the recipient line and see _Ronan Lynch_ inked in clean, practiced calligraphy. His name somehow looks vulgar in such artful letters, and you think that whoever addressed the envelope must be more practiced with place names that end in ‘Court’ or ‘Garden’ than industrial addresses.

Still; it’s not yours, and you ease the seal closed. “Letter for you, Ronan,” you call, knocking on his door. The correct thing would probably be to just slide it under his door and go off to mind your own business, but your curiosity is too keen; aside from Aglionby and the criminal justice system, you can’t imagine who would be sending Ronan formal letters.

He slopes out a moment later to glare at the envelope, unimpressed by the embossing, and tears through the delicate paper to open it. You get a glimpse of your family crest on the letterhead, a warning as clear as bells on a train crossing, and then you just have to watch Ronan’s face as he skims. He’s grinning, incredulous, and when he’s done he snorts and slaps the letter into your hands. Carefully, trying not to assume the worst, you unfold it and sieve the message out of the overly-formal language.

It’s an invitation. To your eighteenth birthday party.

You have a vague recollection of telling your family that if they were determined to celebrate your eighteenth birthday, they were welcome to, so long as they made all the arrangements. Regret slides heavy down your throat; you can’t believe you’d be so careless after the debacle of your middle school graduation. The string quartet. The buffet. Helen’s mocking laughter when they actually made you pose with the certificate.

You tuck the letter back into its envelope, feeling vaguely nauseous. The date isn’t far off. “Did they not send me one?”

“Your attendance must be a given,” Ronan replies. He stretches in his doorframe, eyeing you with wary suspicion. “Does that mean I’m the boyfriend they’ve chosen to acknowledge?”

Neither of you point out he’d be the stranger choice. Now you have to worry that Adam might be excluded, which wouldn’t quite be worth having grounds to boycott the party. “I’ll phone him and find out.”

Adam picks up on the first ring, and he sounds as guarded as Ronan had. “Gansey? I was just about to call.”

“About getting the kind of letter that would make Patrick Bateman jealous?” It does actually make you feel a little better that they both got one. It’s almost certainly Helen’s doing, though you couldn’t imagine how she explained it to your parents. She probably just said you were ‘close friends’ while her mouth did that thing where she’s trying not to laugh, corner of her lips pulling tight.  

“You didn’t mention it was your birthday soon,” Adam says, though he has staunchly avoided telling you when _his_ is, and both of you only know Ronan’s because it was in the paper the next morning. “It looks like your family is going all out.”

“Indeed,” you murmur, rueful.

“I’m guessing I’ll need a suit?”

“You’re coming?” You speak into the phone, but your eyes find Ronan, conflicted plea heavy in your voice. “It’s probably not going to be very… fun.”

Ronan rolls his eyes at you. “We can fucking tell. But yeah, sure. Let’s see how many cars you get, see if Parrish passes out from disgust.”

 

You drive the Camaro up to the estate, because you’ll be damned if you don’t get to do _anything_ good all day. Ronan’s suit is sharp, collar high enough to hide his tattoo, and if it weren’t for his shaved head and reptilian grin, he’d almost look respectable. Adam’s as self-conscious as he always is in formalwear, slowly strangling the knot of his tie in endless attempts to adjust it, but several hundred dollars of tailoring does more for him than he realises. You’re proud of them both, bolstered by having your nicely-suited boys at your side.

Still, you don’t think you really managed to impress on them what the evening will be like. Adam might have an inkling after your mother’s congressional event, but they’re both yet to learn how little a party held in your name can actually have to do with you.

It’s a long drive. You stop at half a dozen truck stops, buy chips and soda in your Italian suits, fish the worst albums you can find out of the bins where music goes to die and make enough noise to annoy the long-haul travellers who are just trying to buy their overpriced sandwiches in peace. You play three dollar CDs in the car and Ronan sings along badly enough that Adam tries to kick him from the backseat, and you’re shocked to find yourself having _fun_. It feels like Ronan and Adam can salvage anything, and when you finally hand the Camaro off to a perturbed valet, you walk with a swagger. You’re so glad they’re here.

Helen marches up with the most dangerous thing you’ve ever seen in her hands: a clipboard. “Right,” she starts immediately, looking between the three of you and glaring as you brush artificial cheese dust off your cuff. “You _should_ have been earlier, but I assumed you wouldn’t be and we’re not actually behind schedule. Get in now, though, guests have started arriving and you need to make sure you’ve greeted everyone before the speeches start at five, _so_ ,” and it goes on.

You nod along, paying attention to her and missing whatever Ronan says to Adam that makes them both shake with laughter behind your back. You already resigned yourself to that, though; they don’t have the same shackles of responsibility you’re bound by. Maybe they’ll be able to enjoy themselves, gorged on free champagne and canapes.

Inside, you find the house decorated for a party, possibly for someone with a taste for republican politics and an aggressive interest in the colour red. A distant, orchestral interpretation of ‘festive’ music plays from somewhere, and the gifts stacked on the table all have the perfect, square corners of department store wrapping.

“Tasteful,” Ronan sniggers.

Before you left, Blue and Noah had offered to throw you a Cabeswater-themed party. What they had _actually_ offered to do was run a hose in Monmouth’s yard until it was muddy, and bury one of Ronan’s old Latin textbooks. There would also have been cake. You try not to think of it too longingly.

Adam and Ronan fall away as your guests arrive, and you are not quite cruel enough to demand they stay near you, but you miss them sorely. At least Adam has Ronan to protect him from the gilded crowd; you get to speak to your mother’s associates, and your father’s old friends, and boys that you used to go to school with that still have politically significant parents and absolutely no interest in Welsh kings.

You should be pleased that the average age in the room is lower than it tends to be, but then you catch the looks some of the eligible young ladies are sending you and realise with a new jolt of dread that eighteen is a milestone. People start asking if you’re seeing anyone, or waiting to meet a nice girl at college. It is an effort to keep your eyes from scanning the room for either of your boys and to give a wan smile and a carefully meaningless answer. “I’ll wait until I meet the right person,” you say, managing to not even pluralize it to _people_ and rewarding yourself with a new flute of something that bubbles and goes down too easily.

Everyone _also_ wants to know what college you’re going to, and which of the paths neatly laid out for you you’re going to follow, and you laugh and make polite conversation, hedge around every real topic with all the grace you grudgingly learned. At least you’re good at this; it’s an environment you adapted to survive in, and you _know_ you’re good, easy charm falling from your lips and all the laughter and conversation light and appropriate. You can’t see Adam or Ronan anywhere. If they’re smart then they would have escaped out into the gardens, and you are desperately jealous.

The speeches are worse than you’d feared. After a very brief play to your informed attributes – your grades, mostly, and references to the rowing team that you no longer captain – the speakers segue very smoothly to your mother’s campaign. Your father’s speech is best, because at least there’s some real feeling to it, even if the platitudes are broad and inoffensive enough to be meaningless. Helen doesn’t give one, to your mild disappointment; you’re sure she would have managed something entertaining.

The night wears on, unending. You receive exactly one car, a sleek Jaguar, ‘for fun’ and you struggle not to consider it in terms of Adam’s salary. There are three cakes, to accommodate differing sets of allergies, and more tiny plates of desserts, and more drinks that you probably accept too often, ginger beer and champagne totally indistinguishable. Everyone wants to speak to you, and once they’ve finished they’re able to move on, find the person to help them with their pet piece of legislation and corner them by the baroque table. You are an item on everyone’s checklist, and you want to help them get it ticked off so that they won’t hold it against you three years from now, and you also want to be knee-deep in moss and mud and Cabeswater, somewhere magic, somewhere _quiet_.

Eventually, you need to come up for air. It’s because you’re out of practice, Henrietta so far removed from the delicate silverware of your family’s world that you can’t manage the whole evening in one held breath. Slipping outside is impossible with someone constantly reaching out to clap you on the shoulder; you retreat deeper into the house instead. One hall away from the party and the sound is already filtered, a contained fishbowl of elegance, and you sag slightly against the wall.

You probably only have minutes before someone comes looking for you, and it wouldn’t be becoming to get caught looking like you’re escaping the party, no matter how much you may actually be trying to escape the party. You try to settle your head by pacing instead, following the elegant Persian floor runner along the hall, clenching and unclenching your fists and trying to summon the strength to return.

“Hey,” Ronan calls.

Your head snaps up to look. He and Adam did not go out to the garden; instead, they installed themselves in one of the downstairs sitting rooms, lying together on a chaise lounge, Adam’s legs draped over Ronan’s in a way that would only look scandalous if you knew already that it should be. They’ve got a bottle between them, and another empty one abandoned on the floor, both of them pink-cheeked and smirking. They look like they’ve been having a very good night.

You wander in, kicking the door shut behind you and sagging into an armchair. It’s a mistake; you don’t think you’ll be able to get up again, knowing what you have to return to. “Comfortable?” you ask, not sarcastic even though part of you wants to be.

“Yes,” Ronan says. “You might want to fix your face, it’s starting to crack. People are going to realise that Ganseys can get _tired_.”

“What a sin,” you sigh, easing your hands over your tired eyes until you feel soothed enough to manage a social smile. “I’d apologise for bringing you both here, except you seem to have dodged it almost entirely.”

“We actually got a waiter to bring us food in here,” Adam tells you, and you smile, glad that at least last event’s disaster is not repeating. “Do you have to go back?”

“Yes,” you say, and you dropped your guard too much at the sight of them, your reluctance leaks out into your tone. You try to look a little less dispirited, because _overwhelmed by an elaborate celebration, what a problem to have_ , but they’re the two people in the world best at seeing through you.

They look at each other. “I’m sure you’ve been a gracious host for _hours_ ,” Ronan declares, sitting up as Adam slides off him. “Hard work like that ought to get rewarded.”

“It is your birthday,” Adam adds.

You don’t understand, until Ronan starts loosening his tie, pulling the knot down to expose the dozen messy hickies Adam has already left on him. They’ve scooted over, made room on the seat between them for you, and they’re both drunk, both grinning at you with lidded eyes, dressed to kill and totally irresistible.

You lock the door to the sitting room, and two hands reach up to pull you down between them. “Just for a minute,” you tell them, knowing it’s a lie as you’re saying it, “I need to go back out soon, I can’t just abandon the party –“

“Uh huh,” Ronan says, curling up behind you, his teeth closing gently around your earlobe. Adam’s in front, pressed up close just so you can all fit. He cups your face and his fingers are impossibly cool on your hot cheeks and your eyes slide shut with no resistance. You can smell the alcohol on his breath and when he kisses you it’s a slow, languid movement, your lips parting instinctively against his while his fingers tangle in your hair.

Behind you, Ronan’s mouth is moving down the curve of your neck, teeth grazing your skin, hot stir of his tongue ruining you in its wake. You need to tell him not to leave a mark, but you can’t pull away from Adam, and you’re hyperaware of Ronan’s movements for the danger. He knows, too, but he’s teasing you, sucking at your skin just enough to make you shiver. One of them undoes your tie for you, lavish suit reduced to an obstacle, and Ronan bites a deep bruise into your bared collarbone, hard enough to make you moan into Adam’s mouth.

Pressed tight between them, it’s all you can do to follow four hands on you, on your hair and your neck and trailing down to grip your hips. Ronan’s licking along the hard crescent he bit into you, Adam’s sucking on your bottom lip, and you feel half out of your mind, delighted and overwhelmed and achingly hard for both of them. You grind back against Ronan, wrap your arms around Adam’s shoulders, try and fail to string a sentence together but you’ve been between them enough times, they know what you need by now.

Adam’s hand works your pants down at the same time Ronan’s hand finally slides down over your hips and then they’re touching you together, a very loose teamwork, conflicting strokes not mattering because they’re _touching you together_ and it is all your frazzled brain has ever wanted. You’re embarrassingly slick already, and you think you should be doing something for them, fumbling for the bulge in the front of Adam’s pants while Ronan rubs up against you.

Adam dips down to lick along your collarbone, too close to where Ronan’s still threatening to bite. “Did I ever tell you how hot you look in that suit, Parrish?” Ronan asks, and then drags Adam into a clash of a kiss over you while you gaze up stupidly and watch all your fantasies come true. If there is a way to be happier, you don’t know what it is.

You’re too tired to draw things out, to resist the incredible pull of your arousal. You come too soon, your release a hazy pulse into both their hands with a breathless cry. Adam kisses you fiercely, his hand curled tight in your hair, and Ronan’s arms snake low around your waist, dragging you up against him. You can’t imagine ever coming up for air, you can’t remember the world outside of the two of them and their touch and the dizzying, perfect heat of them. They reach around to finish each other off, and you feel Ronan’s hard shudder, Adam’s aching shiver, fingers pressed tight into your hips, theirs, the three of you an endless mess.

You come down eventually, to the terrible realisation that your birthday party is still ongoing and somehow, somehow you are going to have to disentangle yourself and leave the most comfortable pile of people to return. Very slowly, you slide upright, inching to the foot of the couch to start straightening your shirt and assess the damage. You are not irredeemably rumpled, the marks on your shoulders nothing you can’t hide, but there’s probably no hope for your hair. Helen’s going to glare. It seems like a very reasonable price.

“Happy birthday,” Ronan tells you, half-slurred as he sinks further into the cushions.

“We’ll see you upstairs when it’s over,” Adam mumbles, but he’s half asleep and you think you’re going to have to come and wake them up at the end of the night before a maid finds them.

You fix your tie, drag your fingers through your hair in some approximation of combing, and run a hand over the dark bites your collar now conceals. Physically, you’re so much more tired than you were before your break, but mentally you think you might be reinvigorated. You should bring them both to all your functions.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to know what you thought! I [tumblr](http://kiiouex.tumblr.com/) too.


End file.
